Sam's Idea
by roqueclasique
Summary: Sam has an idea. Dean agrees to it. There is flute music and relaxing incense. PART TWO OF THE DRIVE 'VERSE.


A/N:

kind of a silly one-shot, just to get back in the swing of things.

If you haven't read my other fic, "I'd Drive All Night Just to Get Back Home," then this one might not mean much to you.

And if you haven't read the first one, but want to,

BEWARE FOR SPOILERS!

Long story short, Dean hurt his leg.

... And go.

**Sam's Idea**

Michael Cho has fallen asleep at his desk.

He jerks upright at the jingle of bells that indicates someone's entered his office, and rubs his eyes, trying to look as if he was merely thinking and not snoozing away on top of a Cosmo his wife stole from the dentist's. He pastes a grin on his face and turns towards the two men approaching him.

"Rise and shine," the shorter of the two says without a smile.

The taller guy – and Jesus, he really is tall – gives the shorter man the sharp end of his bony elbow.

"Hey," the tall one says, all dimples and ducked, bashful head. "Sorry to interrupt."

"Sorry I got caught," Michael replies, glancing at the clock and then down at his schedule for the day. "You must be my three o'clock."

"Not me," says Giant. "That'd be Dean." He jerks a thumb towards the shorter man, who's crossed the room and is lowering himself down into one of the waiting chairs. Dean glances up at his name and gives a short wave, a tight-lipped, mocking smile.

A skeptic.

Michael's professional instincts have already taken over, and he's watching Dean with a critical eye. The guy is young, maybe twenty-five, seems to be in pretty good shape except for the obvious fact that he's walking with a cane. His hair is healthy, skin looks all right, but he's got the telltale lines around his eyes and mouth that Michael sees so often with sufferers of chronic pain.

"Dean," he says, coming out from behind the desk to offer the young man his hand. Dean takes it grudgingly, but gives him a good, firm shake. "I'm Michael. Shall we get started?"

"Uh—"

"Please," Michael says to Giant. "Make yourself comfortable, if you'd like to wait here. There are plenty of magazines and books, and feel free to help yourself to tea in the corner over there."

"Thanks," the kid says, settling himself and his long legs into the chair next to Dean.

Dean doesn't move, just casts a nervous glance from the kid and back to Michael.

"Get up, man," Giant says, gives him a little nudge. He lowers his voice. "Don't be a pussy." This is followed by an apologetic look at Michael, who smiles understandingly.

"Sammy," Dean says, "I don't know if—"

"Need a hand up?" Sammy asks loudly, and starts to climb to his feet. For some reason, this shoots Dean up out of the chair so fast that Michael is forced to take a step back.

Sammy settles back down with a smirk, reaches for a magazine. "Good luck," he tells them, and Michael's not entirely sure who he's talking to.

"Right this way," Michael says, and moves towards the back without looking to see if Dean's following. He's taking his cues from Sammy on how to handle this one. Sure enough, after a brief moment he hears the tap of the cane and the shuffle of footsteps.

He leads the way through a beaded curtain, which Dean bats aside with a growl of disgust, and into his nicest room.

"Why don't you have a seat, Dean," Michael says, gesturing to the chairs.

Dean sits, eyes roving around the room as if he's searching for something. Michael lets him have a minute, pretends to shuffle through some papers so he can watch Dean stealthily out of the corner of his eye. Take a preliminary catalogue of the problem.

"Okay," he says after a moment. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Dean finally settles his eyes on Michael, consciously relaxes his shoulders. He shifts a little in his seat, and Michael makes a mental note of the movement, of the wince that passes briefly across his face.

"Go ahead," Dean says. "But. Just so you know. While I respect you and what you… do… this was all Sam's idea. I don't really buy into… this." He waves his hand, encompasses the low lighting, the tapestries, the posters that map out chakras and pressure points and energy flow in the body.

"That's all right," Michael says. "Although acupuncture treatment will be always more effective if you are open. Do you think you can put your skepticism on hold? Just for today?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Dean says, and it seems almost like a private joke with himself.

"Great." He glances down at his notepad. "Your... Sammy… told me over the phone that this injury happened six months ago, is that correct?"

"Yeah. Give or take a few weeks."

"And you are currently prescribed Vicodin for the pain."

"Yeah."

"Have you been taking it regularly?"

"Pretty regularly, yeah."

"Do you often find yourself taking more than the prescribed dosage?"

Dean hesitates. "Listen, I really didn't come here for a lecture…"

"I'm not going to lecture you," Michael hastens to assure him. "I'm just trying to get some idea of what you've been doing so far to manage the pain."

"Fine."

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

"Yes."

"Open your mouth, please," Michael says, standing.

"What?"

"I need to see your tongue."

Dean looks like he might refuse, but then he rolls his eyes and opens his mouth.

Michael grasps him by the chin, turns him to the side a little. Peers at his tongue, pokes it with one slim finger. "You a pretty heavy smoker, Dean? Bout two packs a day?"

Dean makes an affirmative noise.

"Light sleeper?"

Same noise.

"You're very active."

Again.

"Violent."

Dean's silent this time.

"Dean," Michael says gently. "I'm not here to judge you. But you have to answer me honestly."

A pause, then Dean nods a little, chin moving up and down in Michael's hand.

Michael resumes his examination. "Ever had a problem with alcohol?"

"No."

Michael pauses, squints at the tongue, then rephrases the question. "Have there ever been times in your life when you've consumed more than four drinks a day consecutively for more than a week?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"But not within the past six months."

"No."

"You're very sexually active," he says, and Dean's chin jerks a little in his hand.

"Not within the past six months," he replies, and gives Michael the first real grin since coming into the office. It's like looking at a different face: sparkling eyes, wicked twist to the mouth, quirked eyebrows. Michael quickly revises the assessments he's been making in his head ever since Dean walked in the door. Surly, yes. Stubborn, yes. But also fun-loving, loyal, compassionate. Michael is an excellent judge of character, and this is definitely someone he'd want on his side. For anything.

"All right," he says, releasing Dean's face. He goes to a cabinet and pulls out the robe he thinks Dean will find least offensive, bypassing the gold dragon print for a simple blue cotton.

"I'd like you to put this on," he tells Dean, handing him the robe. "You can keep your undergarments on, but you must take your shirt and pants off. And your socks. Especially your socks. I'll leave the room so you can undress in private."

He goes over to the table in the middle of the room and begins cranking it down so Dean will have an easier time climbing up. "Lie face-up on this table, please. I'll be back in five minutes."

Dean is holding the robe on his lap, looking at it like Michael's just handed him a rat carcass.

Michael doesn't give him time to complain, just smiles reassuringly and exits the room, leaving Dean open-mouthed behind him.

Dean is going to kill Sam.

This was manipulation, pure and simple. He should have known when Sam got that thoughtful look on his face, staring as Dean grimaced his way out of his jeans a few nights ago.

"You put on a pretty good hustle today," his little brother said casually, passing Dean a glass of water and watching him swallow his pills.

"That's cause I was scared for my life," Dean responded. "That ghost was bad fucking news."

Sam nodded. "Still. You were fast."

Dean didn't say anything, just hoisted his leg up onto the bed and nestled a pillow under his knee. He might have been fast, but he was paying the price now.

Sam plopped down hard next to him, and before Dean could stop himself a little hiss of pain escaped.

"Hurts?" Sam had asked.

"Not too bad," Dean had lied, but they both knew the truth.

Honestly, Dean's leg got in the way less than Sam had thought it would, mostly because of the nature of the things they were hunting. Ghosts, poltergeists, nothing huge. Sure, they got tossed against the wall more often than not, but somehow Dean managed to handle himself and still get Sam's back.

Sam had known, but never really known, what an incredible hunter his brother was. It wasn't just strength, or quickness. It was an innate knowledge of when to move and where to move and what to shoot and when. It wasn't in the body, Sam realized. It was in the brain.

Still, though his performance was impressive, Sam couldn't help but notice that his brother had begun upping his Vicodin intake, and when they weren't hunting he remained seated as much as possible. He went through ice-packs quicker than they could re-stock, and when he thought Sam wasn't looking he would massage his knee, kneading the muscle through his jeans.

It was time to try something different.

"I was thinking," Sam had said, and Dean had let out a long groan.

"That's never a good sign," he said, groping the bedside table for his cigarettes and mouthing one from the pack.

"I passed this place today," Sam continued resolutely, "when I was out getting dinner. And I saw this sign. For effective pain management."

"Sam," Dean said.

"Just hear me out, okay? I looked it up online. Just to see. And it looks pretty legit, Dean. There are testimonials and everything. And the guy who runs it seems great. At least, he seems great on the website."

Dean lit his cigarette and tried to pull himself upright on the bed, but stopped when his hip sent a slice of pain through his body. He bit his lip, closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them Sam was still watching him intently.

"Dude," Sam said. "This is stupid. You're obviously in pain, so quit tryin' to lie to me. I've seen how many Vicodin you've been taking. I just don't get why you'll swallow down those pills, which are really bad for you, by the way, but you won't try anything else. It just doesn't make sense."

Dean ashed his cigarette in an empty coffee mug and took a drag, smoke curling from his mouth and stinging Sam's eyes.

"I let you smoke in our room," Sam said, trying a different tactic. "I may as well be smoking those things myself; my lungs sure feel like I do. I smell like an ashtray all the goddamn time. But I let you do it. Why can't you do something for me? Please, Dean. As a favor. For me."

Dean knew. Dean knew he was being manipulated. But still he said, "What kind of clinic are we talking about?"

"Acupuncture," Sam said, and when Dean barked a laugh, started to refuse, Sam had shoved the computer in his lap. "Read the testimonials, Dean," Sam said. "These are real people. From this town."

"You are such a sucker for marketing, Sammy," Dean said, but he read the testimonials, at first skimming them, then paying more attention.

"Huh," he said when he was done. "How the hell can needles do all this?"

"Only one way to find out," Sam said.

And Dean, god help him, Dean agreed. Cause it turns out, Sam's not the real sucker for marketing. Dean gets swindled every time.

And now, sitting in a room that reeks of incense, holding a cotton robe in his lap, having been told to strip down, he realizes that he's been played but good.

Michael seems nice enough, not what Dean would have expected. A lot more down-to-earth, less new-agey, and not the wizened old man he'd pictured. Michael looks like a normal guy, jeans and button-down, maybe in his forties, kind of a handsome fucker, if Dean's being honest.

But, Jesus, acupuncture? How did he let himself get dragged into this? He should just sneak out a window while he has the chance.

Dean, however, is a lot of things, but he's not a quitter.

So he mans up, yanks off his shirt, tugs off his shoes and socks, wiggles out of his jeans. Feels like the biggest fool in the world, sitting in an acupuncturist's office in nothing but his dark green boxer-briefs and a bulky-ass leg brace. He starts to put on the robe but realizes it's made a lot like hospital robes, with a bunch of ties on the sides instead of the back, and he can't get it on right when he's sitting down. So he hauls himself to his feel, props himself up against the wall and struggles into it, fingers stumbling over the ties.

He moves towards the table in the middle of the room, where Michael's indicated that he should lie. It's kind of like an examination room table but softer and with a sheet over it instead of that crackly paper.

He works his brace off once he's sitting down and then stretches out face-up like Michael's instructed. His knee still won't straighten all the way, probably never will, and he reaches down and holds onto the underside of his thigh, trying to give it a little support.

Jesus, who the hell is he? He, Dean Winchester, is about to let some tongue-touching, good-looking Asian guy stick him full of pins?

He blurts out a laugh despite himself, because that last thought would sound kinky as fuck if he didn't know the context.

Michael chooses this moment to re-enter the room.

"Something funny?" he asks, coming over to Dean and putting down some sort of basket near the foot of the table.

"Not really," Dean says, but grins.

"Let's get you something for that knee," Michael says, and slips a pillow underneath the leg. "Better?"

"Yeah, thanks."

They're both quiet for a moment as Michael examines Dean, walking in circles, not touching anything.

"Okay," he says finally. "I'm going to ask you to turn over on your back."

Dean complies, starts grunting his way over, stops halfway through when he realizes he hasn't lain on his stomach since the accident. Doesn't know if he can.

"Ah," Michael says, and he places a pillow under Dean's hip, one under his knee, and then props his foot up on something to keep his knee from straightening.

Dean is silent. He hasn't felt this prone in a long time. He's been poked and prodded by doctors an awful lot over this past year, but this, somehow, is far more intimate. Michael is gentle in a way that doctors are not, and if Dean had to put a label on it, he'd say that Michael is really thinking about his body as belonging to a person, and not just as a body on a table. He's examining Dean's body, but he's examining Dean, too. And it makes Dean feel self-conscious, nervous.

He could really use a cigarette.

"Relax," Michael says, passing his hands gently over the back of Dean's knee. "We'll start slow. A little massage. I'm going to undo your robe, is that all right?"

NO, Dean wants to shout, but he finds himself nodding mutely. He can't go back now.

Michael carefully peels back the robe so Dean's back is exposed, and Dean hears a small intake of breath.

"Wow," Michael says, one finger ghosting over something on Dean's back. "Quite the collection."

The scars. "Yeah," Dean says, trying to think up an explanation. "I—I'm kind of—"

"It's okay," Michael says. "You don't owe me anything. I was just surprised." He places his hands on Dean's back without warning.

"Relax," he says again. "Close your eyes."

Dean swallows, shuts his eyes, and Michael removes his hands. There's a scuffling sound, and then the soft lilt of flute music fills the room.

Dean's eyes fly open. "Oh, you have got to be kid—"

"Eyes closed," Michael says firmly, and Dean lets his eyelids shut again with a grumble.

Michael begins kneading his back, pinching in strange places that jolt right through him. It hurts, but it also feels nice. This is the most Dean's been touched in a long time, and even if it is some strange guy and not a beautiful woman, at least it's human contact. Pathetic, maybe, but Dean's a tactile person, if not that affectionate, and he of all people can appreciate a good massage. And this is a good massage.

He feels his breathing slow, and his muscles relax.

"Okay," Michael says. "I'm going to start with the pins. It won't hurt, I promise."

"Okay," Dean says, eyes still closed. Michael's hands leave his back but reappear a moment later by his left ankle.

"Wrong leg," Dean warns him, but Michael laughs.

"Everything is connected," he says. "For example." He digs a finger into a spot in Dean's back and Dean twitches in surprise as there's an answering twinge in his left calf, right where Michael's poking a finger.

"Huh," Dean says, and there's a tiny pinch. "Was that a needle?"

"Yes. Did it hurt?"

"No."

He doesn't know how many needles Michael puts in him, but he knows they smatter the bottoms of his feet, trail up both his legs and across his back, make a line down his scapula. He's also got two in his ear and three in his skull, which is, okay, not the weirdest thing that's ever happened to him, but it's pretty fucking bizarre. Feels kind of good though, these quick, light jabs.

Michael lights something strong and sweet-smelling, kind of like marijuana mixed with pine needles, and he turns up the music. "I'm going to leave you here for a while," Michael says, "to maximize the effect."

"'Kay," Dean murmurs, not opening his eyes.

"You can sleep, if you want," Michael says. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll be back in about thirty minutes."

Dean hears the door click shut and he lets out a huge yawn. He doesn't know if this acupuncture shit works or not – his leg still hurts in that steady ache he's gotten used to – but it's nice. Very relaxing. He shifts his head a little, tries not to think about nicotine, attempts to pinpoint the places where Michael put the needles.

Is it just him, or can he actually feel the energy flowing through his body?

Jesus, Winchester, Dean berates himself, sometimes you're such a — But he never finishes his thought, because he's asleep.

Out in the waiting room, Sam looks up as Michael comes through from the back and into the office.

"Hey," he says, starting to rise. "Where's Dean?"

Michael waves him back down. "I leave the needles in for a while," he says. "You know. To marinate."

"Oh," Sam says, settling back down, flipping open his magazine. He eyes Michael for a moment. "How's he, uh, handling this?"

"I think he's enjoying it," Michael says with a grin.

"Really."

"Your… Dean…"

"Brother," Sam supplies.

"Your brother should be getting regular massages. With an injury like his, the whole body is affected, trying to compensate for the leg."

"Oh," Sam says, feeling obscurely guilty. "I didn't know. I didn't think of it."

"It's very good you brought him here," Michael says. "You're a good brother."

Sam colors, looks down into his magazine.

"Here," Michael says, coming towards him. "I will give you an analysis for free."

"Huh?"

"Open your mouth," Michael says, and Sam furrows his brows. "By looking at your tongue I can tell what's wrong with you," Michael explains.

"Oh. Thanks, but there's nothing wrong with me."

"We'll see," Michael says. "Come on."

Sam opens his mouth, feeling foolish. It's one thing to badger Dean into this; it's quite another to do it himself.

"Huh," Michael says. "You've suffered a great loss recently."

"How did you know that?" Sam asks.

"You haven't been sleeping well," Michael continues. "You haven't really been sleeping much at all, have you?"

"No. Not really."

"Am I correct in assuming you have nightmares?"

Sam jerks his chin away, stares at him. He hasn't even told Dean about his nightmares.

Michael takes a small step back, gives Sam his space. "You and your brother have a hard life," he says. "That much is easy to tell."

Sam doesn't say anything, just shrugs a little, looks down.

"Yes," Michael continues. "Both of you would benefit from regular acupuncture."

Sam laughs, a little bitterly. Everyone's a salesman.

Michael goes back behind his desk and Sam tries to read his magazine. Tries not to the think about the nightmares. Focuses instead on the case they're working on, a possible haunting in the local library.

He mentally runs through the facts and figures, shocks himself yet again with how easily his minds slips into research-analysis mode.

It's still so new for both of them; hunting. Together. With Dean like this.

"This is not about hunting," Sam had said as they drove out of Palo Alto, eyes still puffy from Jess' funeral. "We're not hunting. We're looking for Dad, and that's it."

"Sam," Dean had protested, waving the article about the missing hikers. "This is on our way!"

"Dude," Sam said. "It's not our problem. It's probably not even our kind of problem."

"Bear attacks?" Dean said. "This many of them? Missing campers? I'm telling you. Blackwater Ridge is definitely our kind of problem."

"Dean," Sam said. "I really don't know how many times we've been over this. What are you going to do? Hike the mountain?"

"Fuck you," Dean spat, but Sam had won the argument.

A week later, a week's drive away from Blackwater Ridge, Dean had waved another newspaper article in Sam's face.

_Haley and Ben Collins mourn loss of brother, Tommy_.

"Found his remains," Dean said. "Or, rather, his bones. Something ate the flesh off his body. Carefully."

Sam was silent, reading the article. Haley and Ben lost their parents three years before. And now their brother.

_Haley had only one comment. _

"_No one would listen to me when I said he was in trouble," she told reporters before slamming the door in their faces. "So I'm not talking to anybody now."_

Sam didn't argue when Dean showed him another article at dinner that night.

_Mysterious Drownings in Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin._

They drove to Wisconsin.

As they sat on the shore of the lake, soaking wet, next to a sobbing mother clutching a little boy who would have died if not for Dean, Sam felt his heart sink and inflate at the same time.

It was starting. It was back. They were hunting. Saving people. Like the past four years had never happened, like Stanford—like Jess—had been just a dream. An incredible dream, but not reality. This was reality.

That evening, Dean iced his leg and drank a six-pack while Sam flipped aimlessly through the channels on their crappy motel T.V. and tried not to cry.

"Hey," Michael says now, snapping Sam out of his reverie. "I'm going back in to your brother. We should be done shortly."

"Great," Sam says, forcing a smile to his face. Maybe he does need acupuncture. Or fucking therapy.

Michael comes out just a moment later, explaining that he took out the needles and that Dean is getting dressed. Dean emerges soon after, his eyelids at half-mast like he just woke up from a nap.

"How you feelin'?" Sam asks, expecting some snarky retort, but Dean just grins up at him, honey-slow.

"Dude," he says. "Acupuncture is awesome."

Michael laughs. "Dean is a convert," he tells Sam, going around behind the desk.

"Your leg feels good?" Sam asks, not ready to believe it.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I mean, it still – nothing's changed, really. But – just – I feel better. Looser."

"With regular acupuncture treatments, you will notice a significant decrease in pain," Michael promises, typing something onto the computer. "I am giving you a list of several recommended acupuncture websites, so you can find a good acupuncturist no matter where you are."

"Thanks," Sam says, glancing at Dean. His brother's leaning on the counter, trying, as always, to get the weight off his leg, but Sam could swear some of the lines around his eyes and forehead have disappeared. Sam realizes that he's grown used to Dean's face looking like it's on the verge of a perpetual wince, and his brother looks younger to him, all of a sudden.

"Huh," Sam says. "Wow." He turns to Michael. "How much do we owe you?"

"No," Michael says, waving his hand. "First treatment is free. Dean says you are here for a few more days. I recommend you come back once before you leave. You can pay me for that one."

"Hey," Dean says, "we can't—"

"Please," Michael says. "It's all right. It is standard practice for all of my patients."

"Thanks, man," Dean says. "Seriously."

"No trouble at all. Just wait a moment while this list prints."

They stand for a moment, Dean working a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, tucking it behind his ear for easy access.

"You know," Michael says, handing over the list with a smile, "there is also acupuncture to quit smoking."

"No shit?" Dean asks, is about to say something else, but is interrupted when all the lights go out.

They pop on a moment later, with a crackling sound, and buzz and flicker for a moment.

The room is suddenly cold.

Sam and Dean glance at each other.

"This happen a lot?" Dean asks.

"All the time," Michael sighs. "We've had the electrician in, but nothing seems to be wrong."

"Huh," Sam says.

"Other weird stuff happen in here, ever?" Dean asks, leaning forward. "Things floating around? Glasses knocked off tables when there's no one there?"

Michael stares. "How did you—?"

"It's like your tongue thing," Dean explains, turning to Sam with cocked eyebrow. "Hey, dude. I think I know how we can pay Mike back for this."

Michael looks from one to the other, then grins suddenly.

"Ah," he says. "This explains a lot."


End file.
